As he entered the church Hans had felt more like an outsider than ever. Firstly because it had been years since he attended Mass. And secondly because no sooner had he set foot in the dark interior than he felt himself the object of everyone’s scrutiny. The young girls peered at him curiously from their pews; the older men frowned as he walked by. Hat off, snapped one woman. Without realising it, Hans had walked into St Nicholas’s Church wearing his beret and looking as though he were a tourist. The church smelt of candle wax, oil and incense. Hans advanced along the central nave. A few faces looked familiar, although he was not sure where he had seen them before. He scoured the congregation, but could not see Sophie, despite having thought he recognised her from a distance. The far end of the nave was almost in darkness, the heavy stained-glass windows letting in only a trickle of light, a fine white dusting. As the liturgy had not yet begun, Hans kept walking towards the front pews. When he reached the end of the murmuring voices he had a clearer view of the high altar with its imposing crucifix, a pair of three-branched candelabra on either side, four altar candles and a grim altarpiece adorned with acanthus leaves. The altarpiece was decorated with two angels seemingly struggling to hold up an oval, perhaps because on top was a chubby third angel clinging on as though suffering an attack of vertigo. To the left of the oval was a snake coiled around a stick and to the right a thorny creeper entwined in a tree. It would only have been possible to see from quite high up, from over the plump little shoulder of the third angel, for example, how close in fact Hans was to Sophie, to predict the moment when he would catch sight of her, and even to appreciate how kind fate had been to provide a vacant seat in the opposite pew, on the men’s side.
Theoretically, the central aisle and the strip of light running along it separated the two sexes. In practice, this division only stimulated everyone’s interest, giving rise to a series of coded exchanges. As Hans searched for a seat, he glimpsed gestures, winks, handkerchiefs, messages, sighs, grimaces, frowns, nods, half-smiles, fans, fluttering eyelashes. The diversion was abruptly cut short by the booming first chord rising from the organ, whose grandiose prow towered above the main entrance. The congregation stood up as one. The boys’ choir began to chant a slow, high note. Various figures emerged from the shadows and circulated among the pews collecting alms for the parish. At that moment, an altar boy, a slightly cross-eyed censer-bearer, and a deacon who shuffled along knees bent, filed out, followed by Father Pigherzog, parish priest of St Nicholas’s and head of the Catholic Church in the principality of Wandernburg in the absence of the archbishop. Hans sat down on the first available seat in the nearest pew. The holy procession approached the altar, the four men kneeled before the tabernacle, and Hans squeezed himself in between two stout men. Father Pigherzog kissed the altar and made the sign of the cross. Hans cleared his throat, and one of the men looked askance at him. The boy swung his censer to and fro over the altar, and Father Pigherzog began intoning the Introit and the Kyrie. There! There she is! Hans realised with a start. And there indeed was Sophie, serene and graceful, as though sitting for a profile portrait, her eyes fixed somewhere above the altar.
Father Pigherzog sang the Gloria with great gusto, and the choir responded. Sophie maintained the slyly flirtatious attitude of a young woman pretending to have no idea someone was staring at her. Dominus vobiscum, Father Pigherzog chanted. Et cum spiritu tuo, the congregation responded as one. Hans could not tell whether Sophie was listening attentively or if her thoughts were entirely elsewhere.
While Herr Gottlieb exchanged pleasantries with a few acquaintances outside the church, Father Pigherzog, now in his cassock and cape, had gone over to talk to Sophie. He clasped the young woman’s hand in his — Sophie’s slender hands had always fascinated the priest, who considered them particularly apt for prayer. Do you remember when you used to come to confession, child? Father Pigherzog mused. And look at you now, it is one of God’s miracles how time passes through our souls, look at you, you’re a grown woman now, but why do you no longer come to confession, my child? For years I’ve been asking myself, why did you stop? Father, Sophie replied, trying out of the corner of her eye to determine how long Herr Gottlieb might be taken up with his acquaintances, you know how time flies, and a young woman in my situation has many duties to perform! It is precisely your situation, my child, the priest declared, which requires your constant communion with the word of Our Lord. As you yourself put it, Father, Sophie retorted, with the same acuity as your holiness always shows — time passes through our souls, and that is why they change. You always were a gifted child, said Father Pigherzog, with a good mind, but one which, how should I say, is apt to be unfocused, your curiosity is boundless, so that you end up filling your head with too many facts and becoming sidetracked from the most important fact of all. You explain things so admirably, Father, said Sophie, that you leave me with nothing to add. Child, child, the priest lamented, why don’t you at least come to pray from time to time? You see, venerable father, she said, if you’ll allow me to be sincere, and, given that in the sight of God’s house it is only right that I should be as sincere as you are in your own mission, at the moment I feel no need of prayer in order to commune with my conscience. Father Pigherzog took a deep breath as he tried to follow Sophie’s reply. When he thought he had fully understood its meaning, one which Sophie attempted to soften by gazing at the priest with exemplary innocence, he stammered: Listen to me, child, those ideas are making you lose your way, your soul is in peril, but I can help you, if only you’d allow me. I appreciate your concern, said Sophie, and beg you to forgive my ramblings, but it sometimes seems to me that a dogged insistence on faith conceals an exaggerated need to be right. And I doubt everything, Father, and am too weak to bear so much conviction. Hail Mary, full of grace! Father Pigherzog crossed himself. I know you don’t really believe that, you enjoy confrontation, but deep down you are penitent. Perhaps you are right, Father, said Sophie, preparing to walk over to Herr Gottlieb. Listen, my child, said the priest, moving closer to her, I know something is tormenting you, and when you come here on Sundays, even if it is only on Sundays, I see you sitting in the pews with that faraway look in your eyes, don’t think I haven’t noticed, and I see your confusion is looking for a way to repent. Must we be getting home, then? Sophie exclaimed, craning her neck towards Herr Gottlieb, who had not uttered a word. I suggest, said Father Pigherzog, taking her by the arm, that we continue this conversation, we can talk for as long as you wish, it will unburden you and help you see things more clearly. I don’t know how to thank you, Father, said Sophie, evasively. Will you come, child? the priest insisted. Will you? Will you who are so fond of reading refuse to study a few passages of the Scriptures with me? I am unworthy of your generosity, said Sophie, and, since you invite me to do so, I must confess that of late I have become interested in religious writings of which your holiness would disapprove. Such as? queried Father Pigherzog. Such as, she replied, The Catechism of Reason by Pastor Schleiermacher, who, with all due respect, Father, seems to be the only theologian to have noticed that we women, besides being sinners, also make up half the world’s population at the very least. At the very least? echoed Father Pigherzog, astonished. Sophie! Herr Gottlieb finally called out. Shall we go, Sophie? Father Pigherzog stepped back, and said, Have no fear, child, I know these ideas of yours are transient acts of rebellion. May God be with you, my child. I shall continue to pray for you.